


(a shadow of) the things that matter the most

by dressedupasmyself



Series: Somewhere Only We Know [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Day drinking, M/M, Magical Bond, Magical House, Malfoy Manor, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 23:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19755955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dressedupasmyself/pseuds/dressedupasmyself
Summary: Draco can't run from his name forever.





	(a shadow of) the things that matter the most

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Slipping Away" by Switchfoot.

Draco took a deep breath to try and get rid of the unsteadiness in his bones. He gripped the letter tightly in his fist, not caring about the crumpled parchment.

He’d known this would happen eventually. It had just never occurred to him how soon that day might be.

“Draco? Is everything alright?”

Draco blinked and looked at Longbottom, who was standing next to the kitchen door in his boxers and an undershirt, diligently ironing his dress robes. Draco didn’t understand why he always insisted on doing it by hand if magic was so much easier.

“I don’t know,” Draco mumbled, not in the mood to lie to his friend.

Longbottom paused in his ironing, looking more pointedly at Draco. “You’ve been slightly off for a while. Is there something I can help you with?”

Draco groaned. He wasn’t a damsel in distress; he didn’t need to be accosted with heartfelt offers of support every time he turned around. Fucking Gryffindors.

“No, thank you. I need to go see Blaise.”

Longbottom once again proved why he was usually Draco’s favourite by staying quiet and letting Draco grab his coat and a handful of floo-powder in peace.

Draco stepped out neatly onto a soft grey carpet. The brightly lit room was empty save for a bored-looking cat that barely even lifted its head when Draco entered. Draco swept a hand over his muggle outfit to try and remove some of the soot from his person.

He’d barely opened the door when he heard off-key singing coming from the direction that he knew to be the kitchen. He made his way over quickly, his quiet footsteps echoing against the hardwood floors. He was wearing a thin hoodie over his shirt, and he was already starting to boil in the harsh Italian sunlight that streamed through the never-ending windows.

Blaise was in the kitchen, as Draco suspected. He was standing over a large tub that held an angry red liquid. It seemed to be hissing and bubbling at Blaise, who paid no mind to it, belting a song Draco was unfamiliar with at the top of his lungs.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on here?” Draco asked, taking great satisfaction in watching his friend jump and nearly knock over the devil liquid, whatever it might be. Draco found himself glad that Blaise had managed to stop himself before he could spill anything. It would have been tremendously inconvenient if his shoes were stained red.

“Fuck, Draco.” Blaise exclaimed, stepping away from his concoction. “I would have been so angry if you’d made me spill this.”

Draco stepped forward to dump his unnecessary coat on the counter, shrugging out of his hoodie as he did so. “What is that, anyway?”

Blaise gazed at the tub fondly. “It’s hot sauce.”

“Hot sauce?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying that you’re planning on eating that?”

Blaise grinned. “I know, it looks mighty fierce, doesn’t it?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It looks like it’ll burn a hole through your tongue. I think I’ll pass on this one.”

“Only because you’ve always been a bit of a wuss when it came to spicy things,” Blaise teased. “Do you think Potter will want a bottle?”

Draco shrugged. “If anyone would be willing to destroy their mouths for the sake of it, it’ll be him.”

Blaise looked pleased for a second, then turned to Draco. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having you set foot in my home, for once?”

Draco reached into the pocket of his jeans for the crumpled bit of parchment.

“I knew my father had ulterior motives for offering me a deal.”

Blaise’s eyebrow rose and he took the letter from Draco. He skimmed the words quickly, then handed it back.

“I’ll make tea.”

They retreated to the porch. Draco tried to sip at his piping hot beverage, wishing he’d asked to have it iced instead. He did not do well with heat.

“How are you dealing with this?” Blaise asked. He’d never been one for beating around the bush.

Draco shrugged, abandoning his mug on the coffee table. “I only got the letter minutes before I showed up here. I’m not sure I’ve processed it properly.”

“I can tell,” Blaise admitted. “Do you know when the funeral will be?”

Draco felt his throat burn, and it had nothing to do with the sun. “I haven’t spoken to my mother yet. I’ll probably go over there when I leave here.” Draco didn’t mention how the thought of returning to his childhood home made his entire being protest.

“Okay.” Blaise sipped at his coffee. “And the Malfoy estates, then?”

Draco groaned, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

“That’s why I’m here,” he admitted. “I have no clue what I’m supposed to do here.”

“You know what you’re supposed to do,” Blaise said calmly. “The question is whether you want to step up to the task.”

“How can I, though?” Draco bit out, sitting upright in sudden fury. Potter’s words from the previous week reverberated in his mind. “I don’t want anything to do with any of the pureblood bullshit. Look where it got my father: imprisoned and hated by the entire wizarding population and fucking dead, now, too. I do not want to follow in his footsteps, no fucking thanks.”

Blaise frowned slightly at him. “While I completely understand why you feel that way, I can’t say that I agree.”

Draco slumped back in his seat. “Alright. Lay it on me.”

Contrary to what Draco expected, Blaise didn’t whack him with sprouted nonsense like he normally would. He stayed thoughtfully quiet, uncharacteristically serious.

“I’m not going to try and change your mind right now,” Blaise finally said. “I have a plan, though.”

“Seriously?” Draco demanded. “This is your big plan?”

Blaise rolled his eyes and continued to stroll leisurely up the drive to Malfoy Manor. “If you cannot trust me for just one minute, then try to indulge me.”

Draco scoffed, but hurried to catch up with his friend. The grounds were bleak and covered in a thin layer of frost. The peacocks had their heads buried in their feathers, uncharacteristically nonviolent. The place reeked of grief and neglect. Draco knew it was a result of the sudden absence of magical energy caused by the death of the lord of the Manor.

Regardless of his absolute refusal to go along with his father’s wishes, he had once been invested in carrying on his family’s legacy. He’d been trained as a child in pureblood customs, and it would be theoretically easy for him to fall back into that role now.

Blaise knocked on the large doors, and they swung open bleakly. The portraits in the entrance hall were all dimmed and sleepy, their previous life force taken from them. The chandelier overhead was starting to freeze. Gone was the comforting buzz of his father’s magic in the floors and the walls and the very building.

It hit Draco suddenly and forcefully like a stunner straight to the chest. His breath hitched and he had to fight to keep his legs from giving out under him. He stumbled and braced one hand against the wall, fighting the onslaught of grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

Lucius had meant everything to Draco as a child. He used to sit under his father’s desk as he worked, playing with the little figures Lucius had given him. They all had striking blond hair and were dressed in different styles of elegant robes in the Malfoy colours. They were enchanted to introduce themselves and guide Malfoy children in assembling the family tree.

“Who’s this?” Draco would ask of his father, ignoring the figures as they tried to talk to him. Lucius rarely got annoyed with him in those early days. He’d speak quietly and confidently.

“Abraxas Malfoy,” he’d say. “Your grandfather.”

“What was he like?”

“Oh,” Lucius would say. “He was a Malfoy. He stood strong for what he believed in. Nothing could shake him.”

“Oh,” Draco would echo, then move on to the next one. “Who’s this?”

“Nicholas Malfoy. Do you remember where he fits?”

Little Draco would scrunch his face in adamant concentration, determined to get it absolutely right. “After Armand Malfoy.”

“Very good,” Lucius would say. He always stayed gentle when teaching Draco.

“What was he like?”

“He was also a Malfoy.” Because it never mattered where they fit in the timeline, Draco knew. They were always Malfoys, first and foremost, before they were anything else. “He worked very hard to achieve his goals. He was well-known among both wizards and muggles. Although many people disapproved of his work, he didn’t allow anything to stop him.”

“Unshakable?” Little Draco asked.

“Always unshakable,” Lucius confirmed, shifting his parchment around.

Draco had later learned exactly what his ancestors’ goals had been. He’d ignored the gruesome nature of most of them, instead taking from it their strength and ambition. He also wanted to be unshakable, like his father, and Abraxas and Septimus and Brutus had all been.

Then he saw his father tremble when he came home, shouting for his mother. He’d held her close to him and rambled about the Dark Lord coming to the Manor. Draco had watched with disgust, because Malfoys didn’t do that. They didn’t show fear. The didn’t falter in their decisions. He knew his father had chosen Voldemort’s side, but he wasn’t acting like it in that moment. He was _shaking_ , and Draco felt true fear for the first time in his life.

And Draco. He had long given up on being a proper Malfoy. He’d failed at his task, and Malfoys didn’t fail. He’d abandoned his family’s side, even though Malfoys didn’t let anyone break them apart. He cried too much and was friends with blood traitors and muggleborns and _Harry Potter_. He kissed boys and watched television and hated snakes, actually, because they fucking scare him. He wasn’t accepted as a Malfoy, and it suited him. He didn’t want any of the bullshit in the first place.

He did love his dad, though. Through everything, and after all he’d said and done to hurt Draco, he was still the man who taught Draco how to ride a broom, and who had picked him up when he inevitably fell off. He was still the calm, fierce presence who spoke sternly to Draco in the middle of the night when he complained about boggarts under his bed and in his closet, but quickly got rid of the damned things anyway.

A soft hand raked down Draco’s back and he opened his eyes. His mother was crouched behind him. He hadn’t even noticed himself sliding to the floor. He turned to her, and she pulled him effortlessly into her arms. They were both shaking, but it didn’t matter.

“Tea, Master Draco?” Draco nodded at Whipsy, and she poured him a cup.

Blaise also accepted a cup, but Narcissa declined. She’d pulled herself together since breaking down in the foyer. Draco hadn’t bothered, still dressed in his jeans and hoodie and coat. It really was fucking cold in the Manor.

“I assume you read my letter, Draco,” Narcissa started. She was poised and beautiful as ever. It irked Draco more than he expected. Why did she insist on pretending when everybody in the room knew she was anything but fine?

“I did,” he said.

“I wish to apologise in person for the way your father and I treated you these past few years.”

Draco huffed. “Are you really sorry, though, Mother? It feels like you’re trying to manipulate me into returning. I won’t have it.”

Narcissa didn’t frown, but Draco could read her displeasure like an open book. “Don’t be so dramatic, Draco. I supported your father in his choices, regardless of my own feelings on the matter. Although I did bring up my concerns to him repeatedly over the years. He thought you would be willing to compromise your identity for the sake of the family’s welfare. I told him that was ludicrous and went against everything he’d ever taught you, but desperation made him harder to reason with.”

“Is that why he tried to reach out to me a week ago? Or did he realise he was dying and had no other children, so he would just have to make do with fucked up old me?” Draco didn’t intend for his words to come out quite so bitter, but he couldn’t take them back. He felt justified in his anger.

Narcissa winced visibly this time. “I understand your displeasure at the situation, Draco, but it cannot be helped. I will be moving in with my sister tomorrow to give you space to work, if you wish. And if you decide to walk away from your legacy, that is also within your right, and I won’t do anything to stop you.”

She stood, and Draco watched her robes flick elegantly behind her. He listened for the sound of the front doors closing, then gripped his hair in his hands. He let out a long groan.

“What are you going to do?”

Draco looked at Blaise from between his fingers.

“I’m going home, and then I’m going to get drunk until the perfect solution appears to me in a vision.”

Blaise scoffed. “You’re so responsible.”

Draco laughed despite himself and stood. “Fuck off, you’re brewing sentient hot sauce in your kitchen.”

Blaise stood too. “I do still have something I think you need to take with you. Wait here.”

Draco was about to protest or follow after Blaise, but his friend had already slipped from the room. He only had to wait a few minutes for Blaise to return with a thick book under his arm.

“Where did you get that?” Draco asked sharply.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “If you’ll bother to look back upon our childhood games of hide and seek, you’ll remember that I always won. That was because I discovered the room of Rejected Malfoy Stuff and spent ages sifting through your dirty laundry.” He handed Draco the book. “You’re welcome.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He knew what room Blaise was talking about. It had been forbidden since he was big enough to walk without leaning against the wall. The one time he’d managed to sneak in there, he’d hardly managed to look at a single portrait of an unfamiliar blond that was propped up against the wall before his father found him.

“Let’s get out of here before I lose my family jewels to frostbite, alright?” Blaise said flippantly, and Draco followed him through the mourning halls.

Draco side-alonged Blaise to Luna’s so he could take the floo back home. Draco had had to get a special permit to have the international floo-line to his best friend opened. It had taken Longbottom pretending that he was the one applying for the permit before it was granted, and Draco didn’t even bother feeling indignant about it. He probably wouldn’t have wanted a Death Eater to have access to his country if he was Italy, either.

Longbottom had just changed into his freshly ironed robes and was drinking tea with Luna in the kitchen when Draco got home. He joined them, well aware of his shitty appearance.

“Where are you going?” Draco asked, eyeing Longbottom’s arse in his dress robes. Longbottom caught him looking and raised an eyebrow.

“Pureblood council.” He stuffed a whole biscuit into his mouth, making Draco crinkle his nose. “I thought I told you this morning.”

Right. Because Draco had absolutely had all his wits about him that morning.

“Oh.” Draco bit his lip. “So, listen, you’re probably going to hear anyway, but my father died this morning.”

Longbottom’s face cleared and he regarded Draco with a rare look of compassion. “I’m sorry for your loss, mate.”

“Sorry, Draco,” Luna added. “Death is much worse for the living.”

Draco shrugged. “Yeah, it is what it is.” He looked at Longbottom. “I’m meant to take control, now, but I’m not sure if I want to. I’d appreciate your opinion on the matter once you get back.”

Longbottom stepped forward to place a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Whatever you need.” He placed a kiss on the top of Luna’s head, then headed for the door. “I’ll see you both later.”

Luna finished her tea, then gave Draco a soft hug. “Are you going to call Harry?”

Draco glanced at the clock and sighed. “I might as well. He’s the only one who indulges in day drinking with me.”

Luna smiled in that annoying way that she saved for occasions when she thought she had it all figured out. “He is quite good at understanding you, too.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Okay, go away now.”

Draco found Harry in the backroom of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, talking to a rubber duck. Draco knew all about rubber ducks now, and he was confused. As far as he knew, they were simply meant to entertain muggle children, not provide insight into human problems.

“Why are you talking to that thing?” Draco asked.

Potter turned and grinned at him. “That’s because it’s George. We’re experimenting with some new products.”

“Right. I have a very large number of questions, but they’re all less important than the reason I came here in the first place.”

Harry looked at him again, his eyes clear and filled with fascination. “Why are you here?”

“It’s eleven in the morning,” Draco said. “I need a drinking partner.”

There was a soft puff of air and suddenly George Weasley was lying on the floor. He sat up and shook his head. “How long was that?”

“Three hours,” Harry said, jotting something down. “We’ll need to tweak that again to bring down the potency.”

George stood up and sat down in the chair next to Potter. He looked up at Draco. “Why are we drinking this early?”

“I don’t remember inviting you,” Draco said snootily. George grinned, not phased. “And if you must know, my father is dead, and I have to get drunk to escape the fucking mess he left behind for me to deal with.”

Both men sobered up instantly. “Shit, Draco,” Harry said. “Are you alright?”

“I thought the demand for alcohol would answer that question for me, but I guess not.” Draco frowned. “No, _Potter_ , I’m not alright. Now are we going, or not?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine, be that way. But I’m not dragging you away from the karaoke this time. You can make as much of an arse of yourself as you want.”

“Good, my arse is beautiful.”

George shot Harry a look that Draco could not decipher, but then both of them stood up.

“Fuck your manners, Malfoy, I’m coming along. You two look like you need a babysitter.”

Draco woke up with a headache. His eyes blinked open. He was in an unfamiliar room, splayed out on bright green sheets. His legs were pinned down by a torso, and there was another arm slung around him. He managed to sit up.

Upon further inspection, he determined that the bodies next to him at least belonged to George Weasley and Harry Potter, and all of them were fully clothed. He glanced out of the window and concluded that they were in the flat above the joke shop, presumably in George’s room if the atrocious colour scheme was anything to go by. It was still dark outside, and a glance at the clock against the wall let him know that it had barely gone three in the morning.

Thirsty, Draco climbed carefully out of the bed. He opened the door and succeeded in finding his way to the kitchen with minimal effort.

Draco was certain that he was still quite a bit drunk. He filled a glass with water and downed the whole thing. He glanced around for something to eat, but something else caught his attention. A familiar book sat discarded on the countertop. Draco vaguely remembered using it to balance his drink on George’s head once they’d made it back to the shop, but he had no idea how it got here.

Draco dug his wand out of the inside of his hoodie and summoned the book. The outside was slightly sticky, but it was otherwise intact. He rummaged in one of the cupboards for a packet of crisps, then moved to the living room. He sat down on the couch, picking up a discarded blanket from the floor for his legs. He munched as he opened the heavy book.

The book had no title and no introduction. Draco might have thought it to be a journal of some sort.

 _Armand Malfoy,_ read the heading on the first page. Draco skimmed through the writing underneath. He knew the story of Armand, a French wizard, who first found his way to England by getting into the good graces of the muggle king. Armand had been the one to build the Manor and start their political position.

Draco turned the page. He recognised more names as he went on, but there were also a few unfamiliar ones that he paid more attention to.

 _Nicholas Malfoy_ made him pause. He read the paragraph once, then again, then blinked. He’d known that Nicholas had been one of the first of the Malfoys to openly declare his distrust of muggles. The true extent of his killing had not been captured in the books Draco had to study.

The next name was unfamiliar. _Andreas Malfoy,_ the first Malfoy to be stripped of the family name. Draco read on and felt his heart break for the man. He’d been lord of the Malfoy Estate for twenty-five years. He’d been much more kind-hearted than his father. Although he followed tradition and valued their status, he wished no harm on the muggles around them. In fact, when his eldest daughter turned out to be a Squib, he’d allowed her to remain living in the Manor until he’d found a muggleborn willing to marry her. When he died, his son, Lucius the First, vowed to erase his father from the Malfoy records. He had his sister and her family killed, then set out on his goal to marry the muggle queen.

Draco carried on reading.

 _Octavius Malfoy_ was rejected by his father, Brutus, for siding with what would later be known as blood-traitors. He never got to rule the Malfoy Estate.

His younger brother, Septimus, was lord of the Manor for forty years. Though he likely had the Minister for Magic under some form of the Imperius curse, he played a huge part in accepting witches as equal to wizards, aided by his wife, Eilith.

Draco read and read and read, until light was starting to filter in through the window. He heard footsteps on the stairs but didn’t look up. Minutes later, the couch dipped next to him and a section of blanket was pulled out from under his legs. He looked up at the smell of his favourite tea.

Harry smiled and held out a mug to Draco. Draco took it. They didn’t speak as Draco finished his reading. The book ended before his father, but it held enough information to make Draco doubt.

“There were good Malfoys,” Draco muttered, placing the closed book carefully on the coffee table. He made himself comfortable, letting his feet be propped up in Harry’s lap.

“Well yes, I’d assume so.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Draco whined. “There are Malfoys who weren’t disowned and who actually ruled the Manor, but they weren’t malicious or anything. They were kind, and they contributed to society, but they were also _Malfoys._ They still embraced the family and its values, without distorting it to fit with their evil plans.”

Harry blinked at him. “I thought you knew everything about your family?”

Draco shook his head. It hurt, so he stopped. “No, I knew the censored version of my family history. I only knew the parts Abraxas Malfoy approved of. The rest was hidden away.”

“Okay,” Harry muttered. “Why is this important?”

His question wasn’t condescending or designed to make Draco feel ashamed for caring. It was genuine curiosity. Harry was his friend, and he wanted to understand why Draco was freaking out about this at six in the morning, while both of them were hungover.

“It’s so important,” Draco said, and he felt tears well up in the back of his throat. He was sick of crying, so he pushed through. “It’s important because I don’t have to choose. I don’t have to walk away from everything I was before the war, but I don’t have to go back to being that person, either. I can be me, on my own terms, and still be a Malfoy.”

“I think I understand,” Harry said. “Family fucks us over and hurts us and steps on us like we’re nothing but trash, but we need them.”

Draco nodded, intrigued at the hurt that was so clear on Harry’s face. He’d dig deeper into that later, but he needed to fix his own mess first. “It’s my turn, now. Nobody can take my name or my legacy away from me now that my father is dead. I can make it into anything I want. And then maybe my own children won’t have to deal with the same thing I did, and they won’t be cast out for being a Malfoy.”

It took a few days for Draco to feel ready to return to the Manor. He had to dig up his favourite robes from the back of his closet and get Longbottom to help him iron it, because for once his spells weren’t holding. When he’d put it on and looked at himself in the mirror, he thought he understood why Longbottom insisted on doing it by hand. He was wearing the silver and black and green from his family crest, and there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight. He felt a fierce pride creep up in him, and it added to that feeling to know that he had worked harder than just flicking his wand to ensure that the fabric hung smoothly across his body.

He apparated just outside the Manor gate. The grounds were still dull and dead. The very statues on the gate seemed to droop. There was no fizzy feeling of the Manor wards making way for him as he got closer. He had to physically remove the large black chain from the gate and push it open.

“Whipsy,” he called once he was inside. She popped up beside him, her eyes sagging and ears wilting even as she bowed before him. “Please help me close the gate.”

She perked up slightly and they pushed it together.

“Is Master Draco needing anything else?” Whipsy asked.

“I might need lunch later, and maybe dinner. It depends on how much the Manor is going to fight me.”

“Yes, Master Draco. Whipsy will cook.” She bowed again, then disapparated.

Draco walked up to the front door, taking in the silent grounds. The peacocks were still hiding, and even though Draco had despised them as a child, he vowed to give their home back to them as soon as possible.

The front door didn’t open for him, either. He pushed it open, and then shut again once he was inside. He stood in front of the gloomy portraits and took a breath. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d have to do to gain control over the Manor, but he knew the general gist of it.

“Wake up,” he commanded, flicking his wand to the ceiling. The chandelier fizzled, then turned on as it recognised his magic. The portraits shuffled and yawned, then turned their attention towards him. Draco tried not to blanch at the newest addition to the collection, right in the middle.

“Draco Malfoy,” one of the portraits snarled. If Draco wasn’t mistaken, it might have been his grandfather Abraxas. “It sure took you long enough to take your claim. Why?”

Draco squared his shoulders and turned to face Abraxas with an unwavering expression. “My apologies. I was strategizing. I am the lord of the Manor now, and I will not stand for any impurities within my reign.”

“Draco.”

Draco turned, forcing himself to keep his cool as he faced his father. He hadn’t been there yet when Draco had been here the last time, and Draco was grateful for that. He had no idea what he would have said to the man otherwise.

“Father.”

Lucius watched him with the cool calculation Draco was used to seeing directed at a large problem that needed solving. “I am glad you’ve changed your mind.”

Draco smiled coldly. “I haven’t. I’m not marrying anyone. I don’t need to. I am lord Malfoy, with or without a woman by my side.”

Lucius pressed his lips together in a thin line but nodded grimly.

Draco let his eyes roam over the rest of the portraits. They were all watching him, but it didn’t seem as if they had any more questions for him, so he nodded firmly and moved on to the next room.

He started upstairs, deep in the attic. He poured his magic into every room as he moved from corner to corner, making sure every magical aspect of the house recognised him as its master.

He found the Rejects Room, as Blaise had called it, on the fourth floor, wedged behind a storage closet. He spent a few minutes going through everything in it, then realised he would have to come back for it and moved on. By the time he stood at the top of the cellar steps, Draco was tired. He was hungry and he felt more drained than he ever had before. He took a breath, determined to get this done.

He walked quickly down the stairs and opened the door to the dungeon. Someone, presumably Whipsy, had cleared up all evidence of Voldemort’s stay. Gone were the shackles and bloodstains and sickly smell of torture. Instead, Draco was met with an empty room. He set his shoulders and walked from corner to corner, letting his wand swirl where it wanted.

It felt anticlimactic, to have dreaded that room so very much and to have nothing waiting for him. He took it as a sign that perhaps, with enough time, the horrors that had happened at Malfoy Manor under Lucius’ reign would fade to be nothing but a memory. Draco could feel the tug in his stomach as the house started to accept his magical core, and he knew that the house yearned to be loved again. He didn’t know how his father could have stood by and watched as the house was deprived of everything it needed, especially bonded to it as he had been. Maybe that was a testament to how scared his father had been, or perhaps of his bravery. Draco wasn’t sure, and he had a suspicion that it would take him the rest of his life before he ever unravelled that mystery.

Draco quickly moved through the wine cellars, which had thankfully gone unnoticed by the Death Eaters.

Finished, Draco dragged himself back up the steps and up the stairs to the kitchen. The place was already starting to come alive under his feet. Lights were turning on, windows opening, sounds returning. The Manor felt like life, like gratitude and like peace and excitement.

Whipsy was in the kitchen, looking less droopy than before. She perked up when she noticed Draco.

“Master Draco can eat his lunch in the conservatory. Whispy remembers Master Draco liking that room, and the flowers are looking so beautiful. Whipsy will set the table.” She disapparated and Draco followed.

She was right that the conservatory had always been one of his favourites. It was like being outside, but without the risk of having a peacock chase you down the driveway. Draco smiled at the memory.

Whipsy had prepared a simple meal of roast chicken salad, but Draco found himself enjoying it as he looked out over the Manor grounds. The grounds were still dull, waiting for the last bit of Draco to attach to the Manor’s core. Draco spotted one of the peacocks curiously watching the house, shaking its annoying feathers. Draco wondered if they would obey him now that he was lord of the Manor, but he had a sneaking suspicion that they still hated him. Luckily, he wasn’t their biggest fan either.

After his late lunch, Draco went back to the entrance hall. He stood tall in front of the portraits.

“I request to take my place as the rightful Malfoy Heir,” he demanded.

Lucius watched him carefully again, a single long finger pressed against his cheek. “You’ve walked from threshold to threshold?”

“Yes.”

“And the magical inhabitants accept you, Draco Malfoy, as their new master?”

“Yes, unless my predecessors have any qualms.”

“None from me,” Abraxas rasped. One by one, the rest of the portraits all agreed, until just Lucius was left.

Draco didn’t break eye contact with his father, even if his insides were shaking. Maybe that was what it meant to unshakable. He refused to back down, even though he was scared shitless of not being good enough in his father’s eyes.

“Lucius?” Abraxas asked. “What will be your assessment?”

Draco felt himself relieved, not for the first time, that Abraxas had not been his own father.

Lucius met Draco’s gaze, and Draco couldn’t pin his expression. He was afraid that his father would refuse on the grounds of Draco being gay and friends with multiple Weasleys and planning to rip the Malfoy name down to nothing so he could build it back up from the bottom.

Lucius seemed to see something in Draco’s gaze, because he nodded, just once. “Very well. I approve.”

At his words, a door clicked open on the opposite side of the hall. Draco shot one last glance at his father, then walked through the door before either of them could change their minds.

The heart of the house was more beautiful than anything Draco could have ever imagined. He was in a small meadow. A river trickled by him and flowers grew from every crevice. He instinctively knew that this place existed somewhere in France. Armand must have felt connected to this place and channelled that into fusing the wards to their family’s magical signature. Draco wasn’t sure what to do next. His father had only ever told him that he would know, once he was allowed in.

Draco looked around some more, and he felt at peace. He had the sudden urge to sit down and spend some time just watching. He sat on a patch of clover and looked up at the trees.

“What do I do now?” he asked softly.

Something rustled behind him and he turned his head. There was a small blond boy sitting on a log, skipping stones into the river. He definitely hadn’t been there before.

”Hello?” Draco called out. The boy looked at him, then carefully made his way to where Draco was still sitting.

“Do you like my meadow?” the boy asked. He was young, no more than eight years old. He seemed hesitant, as if Draco wouldn’t approve of his creation.

“I adore it,” Draco admitted. “What’s your name?”

“Tiberius.”

“Oh.” The name was familiar, and it took Draco a second to place it. “Armand’s son?”

Tiberius perked up. “You’re the first one who knew that.”

Draco smiled. “Yes, well, I had a different book than the rest of them. What are you doing here?”

Tiberius looked serious. “When my father left France, I was very sick. He knew that I wouldn’t survive the journey all the way to England. He didn’t want to leave me behind, but he knew that he had no other choice. The day before he left, he took me to his favourite meadow.” He looked around him as if he was seeing everything for the first time. “He sat with me, right to the end.”

Draco frowned. “But if you died, how are you here right now?”

“Oh, I’m just a memory, really. When Armand connected the Manor’s magic to his own, it latched onto a significant moment and fabricated itself as this meadow, and I came with it to give the house a voice.”

Draco nodded. “So, what do I need to do now?”

Tiberius looked at him. “You wish to bond to the Manor. You’ve already started.”

Draco placed his hand over the place under his ribs where he could feel the tug of the house. Tiberius watched him do that, then smiled and matched the gesture.

“The last person to bond with me didn’t take very good care of me,” Tiberius whispered, his smile gone again. “He did at first, but then he stood by and watched as I was used to cause so much pain.”

Draco noticed the tears welling up in Tiberius’s eyes, and he reacted instinctively. He reached out a hand, and the little boy took it. “They used me, too.”

Tiberius blinked at him with huge blue eyes. “Will you visit me sometimes? It gets lonely in here.”

Draco nodded, and suddenly he had a lapful of Malfoy child.

“You know, I can tell when you’re lying,” Tiberius murmured against his chest. “I can feel all of your magic, all your feelings, all your intentions. I won’t bond with you if I don’t think you mean what you’re saying.”

A thought occurred to Draco. “If you decide who gets to bond with you, then how come all those atrocious people managed it? Nicholas? Brutus?”

Tiberius shrugged. “They never wished me harm. They all wanted to protect their family. That is all I look for.”

Right. Their political views would hold no significance for a child. It just wanted to be cared for.

“I am so sorry that you got hurt,” Draco said. “I know how it feels to be hurt while the people you trust just stand by and watch. I won’t do that to you.”

Tiberius nodded. “I know. I trust you.”

The tug in Draco’s gut strengthened and pulled tight. He felt his magic swirl around him, starting in his fingertips and ending at his toes. It was everywhere, and it was everything he could feel. It burned hot and ice cold at the same time, and it felt like home.

Longbottom and Luna were on the couch with Harry when Draco got home. They were drinking tea, and Draco smiled at them. He was so, so tired from the long day and wanted nothing more than to crawl between Luna and Harry and fall asleep.

“Hey,” Longbottom greeted him. “How did it go?”

Draco made a scooting motion and Luna moved closer to Neville, while Harry’s arm automatically lifted so he could fold himself in between them. That was his designated spot, and they knew it. It made him feel so loved to know that they accepted that he belonged there, with them.

“Tired,” he grumbled, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the steady pressure of Harry’s side against him. Their friendship was quickly becoming more valuable to Draco than anything he could buy. It made him reluctant to look deeper into the comfort he got from being close to Harry, or the desire he sometimes had to run his fingers through that messy fuckup of a hairdo. He could be Harry’s friend. It was more than enough for him.

“What was it like?” Longbottom asked.

Draco hummed sleepily. “The Manor is happy to have me, I think.”

“Of course it is,” Luna agreed. “You’re wonderful, Draco.”

Harry shifted next to him, grabbing Draco’s favourite blanket from the armchair. Longbottom reached for the TV-remote, and Luna went to make tea. It was a different feeling than sitting in Tiberius’s meadow, but it was home all the same.


End file.
